


Keep It Burning

by ClockworkCourier



Series: Isle of Ransey [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Geographical Isolation, Lighthouses, Lightkeepers, M/M, Mermaids, Selkies, Shipwrecks, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: Edward Little is assigned by the Northern Lighthouse Board to be assistant lightkeeper at Wardskerry Light on the isolated island of Ransey. Between the strain of isolation and the strange happenings on the island, Edward wonders if his mind is truly going or if the man he sees in the water is real.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: Isle of Ransey [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1879783
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Keep It Burning

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually part of a series I've been working on for over a year, all based on the residents of a teeny tiny island near Orkney. I've been poking at it for so long that Ransey now has a topographic map and a full detailed history, because I... spent all my time doing that rather than writing this. But whatever! No time like the present!
> 
> (And this is definitely inspired by that beautiful mer!Jopson art by sufayr. I shan't lie, it was too good.)

_1\. In ordinary circumstances, the Lights are to be lighted every evening on the going away of daylight, and extinguished every morning on its return._

_2\. Between the hours specified in the Table for lighting and extinguishing, the Lights shall be kept burning bright and clear each night._

Instructions to Lightkeepers – Northern Lighthouse Board _  
  
_

* * *

  
Edward Little has never been seasick in his life, but at that exact moment, he fears that he’s about to be.

The _Esther_ pitches in the grey waves like a little paper boat in a disturbed pond. Edward watches with some infernal combination of horror and fascination as the bow points directly down towards the water, and then suddenly up at the equally grey sky. It’s certainly no help that the entire boat vibrates with the power of its engine, and what doesn’t smell like seawater has the acrid stenches of coal and fish guts. The odour is practically woven into the suffering yellowed fabric of the seats. None of that seems to bother the _Esther_ ’s captain, a grinning man called Blanky, never seen without a pipe fixed between his teeth and a wool greatcoat buttoned shut all the way to his throat. He might be mad— Oh, no he _certainly_ is mad, as there is no other human who would willingly run the single ferry to Ransey save for a madman. The only other man accompanying them is the stoker, a young man that Edward initially mistakes for a child. His hair _might_ be blond but is either truly mouse-brown or so dirty with soot that it appears dark. He’s completely heedless of the weather and the state of the ocean, singularly focused on shovelling.

Just as the nose of the _Esther_ bows down again to a whitecapped wave that would soak the roof of a cottage, the captain starts _singing_. Not for the first time, Edward wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

“ _Ooooooh!_ Santiana gained the daaaaay! A- _waaaaaay_ , Santianaaaa!” Blanky howls, loud enough to be heard over the snarl of the wind. The next few words are lost in the tempest but pick back up in time to hear him enunciate, “ _Mex! I! Co!_ ”

For lack of anything to do other than meditate on the churning of his stomach trying to mimic the motion of the waves and to be the one-man audience to a yodelling madman (as the stoker seems to be in a world of his own), Edward reaches up to adjust the brim of his Northern Lighthouse Board-issued hat before leaning his head back against the damp, cracked window behind him and imagining what Ransey will be like. All he knows is from what he’s read and a scanty few photographs of the place, mostly depicting soaring black cliffs over whitecapped oceans, seabirds nesting in every nook available, and a lone stone church presiding grandly in the foreground of a stone-walled croft. He’s pored over the single available map, published twenty years before the date and, as of yet, not deigned by any cartographer to be updated. Edward wonders if anything has changed at all.

He knows he’ll be taking up residence at the Wardskerry Lighthouse near a small fishing village called Farfell. Last Edward knew—judging by his now twenty-years-outdated knowledge—the lighthouse was colloquially known as the Terror Channel Light. The _channel_ was that in name only, as on the map, it referred to the distance between the peninsula that hosted the lighthouse and Wardskerry itself—a loftily-named, uninhabited rock that could hardly host a cottage. A small, handwritten note on the map had told Edward all he needed to know about the narrow passage.

_Terror Channel – Many wrecks recorded_

Edward presumes they were fishing boats. Even so, the word “many” used to quantify them is harrowing for such a small section. Then again, with the way the ocean now tosses the _Esther_ about, he supposes the phrasing isn’t as fanciful as it seems.

“Oi, lad!” the captain suddenly barks. Edward opens his eyes and finds the captain pointing ahead. “Ransey!” is all he says.

Sure enough, when Edward looks through the fogged windows, he sees a black sliver of land ahead. It looks like an ink blot on the horizon, more stain than substantial. Then it disappears behind a wall of water as the _Esther_ pitches down again, and then violently jerks upright as Blanky howls in delight.

“God willin’, boy, you don’t turn tail and want for home soon!” he cackles. “You’ll be swimmin’ the distance!” Not waiting for Edward’s reply, he breaks into another warbling, yowling song punctuated by the sound of his boots stomping on the wet boards and the rhythm of the stoker’s shovelling. All Edward can lyrically make of the song is something about a girl in Leeds with her skirt up over her head. Right then, Edward wishes he were anywhere else, even Leeds.

What distance it is to the island, the time taken to get there must triple on account of the waves and weather. The _Esther_ bobs through it, chugging along until Ransey goes from being a spot of ink on a great grey canvas to becoming a proper island. Edward can make out towering spires of dark rock rising from the water, appearing to have been cleaved away from the cliffs. Ransey is a rise of stone, topped with whitecaps for hills. For a moment, Edward wonders if he’ll have to scale a cliff to get to Farfell, until he sees a divot in the cliffs where the land swoops down and settles into a bay. Somehow, the _Esther_ turns towards this against the riotous shoving of the sea.

“Is that Farfell?” Edward shouts over the rumble of the engine and the shriek of the wind.

“Eh?” Blanky shouts back, cupping a hand behind an ear.

Edward points to the inlet. “Farfell! Is that it?”

“No, no!” He laughs like the crack of a whip. “Much too big! That’s Harring!”

Harring is one of three settlements on the island, according to the map. It’s on the far east side, whereas Farfell and Wardskerry are at the southernmost tip. Calling it _big_ is the most generous thing Edward’s ever heard, as from what he can see of it, it amounts to little more than a huddle of houses.

The laugh splits the air again. “That’ll be your London, sir!” he announces. Then, he stomps a boot on the boards again. “Mister Torrington! Give ‘er a spark!”

If Torrington hears the captain, he makes no sign of it other than to increase the frenzied pace of his shovelling until the _Esther_ is under a great black cloud of its own making. Edward has no way of telling if the boat is moving any faster; the sea seems to be pushing back against them with the means to send them right back to Kirkwall.

Somehow, some miraculous way, the _Esther_ cuts through the tides like a particularly stubborn butter knife. It huffs and sputters its way into the mouth of the inlet until the violent sway of the sea tempers into something far more tolerable and less inclined to make Edward revisit his breakfast. The captain draws the _Esther_ toward Harring’s port. _Port_ is the kindest word that can be applied to it—little more than a dock with a good number of fishing boats lashed to its moorings.

It comes as little surprise to Edward that there are people out in this weather. If they’re anything like the _Esther’_ s captain, then rain and wind can hardly stir their spirits. Most of the people that Edward sees are fishermen, mending nets or patching the bottoms of boats hauled onto the shore. Racks of fish smoke over struggling fires and men are seated around them, smoking pipes and holding conversations. Few people wait on the dock, eagerly eying the ferry as it approaches. That comes with even less surprise, as Edward’s scanty luggage shares space with some supplies and mailbags from Kirkwall. The ferry is all-important for an island as isolated as Ransey.

“Takin’ her in, Mister Torrington!” Blanky announces. Only then does the stoker ease up at all. He twists some combination of valves before nodding to the captain and taking a seat across from Edward. It’s the first time in their entire trip that the boy has sat down.

The _Esther_ hobbles up to the dock, bobbing uncertainly. One of the men on the dock goes about the ritual of tying an intricate knot to keep the _Esther_ in place while the captain slaps Torrington on the back, knocking a good deal of coal dust off him. “That’s a lad!” he says as Torrington smiles and wheezes. “Won’t need your services ‘til Wednesday next, provided the weather holds, eh?”

Torrington blinks and looks up thoughtfully, sniffing and wiping the side of his nose. “Might be cuttin’ peat on Wednesday,” he says in an accent as thick as Manchester factory smoke.

“Sure as you _won’t._ ”

“Why not ask Hart? He’s always lookin’ for work.”

“Don’t want Hart,” Blanky says, already picking up a mailbag and hoisting it over his shoulder. “The man don’t know a trycock from a shovel handle. Anyroad, you’re on here come Wednesday.” He finishes this with finality before nodding at some of the supply crates. “Now be a gent.”

“I’m a stoker—not workin’ for no Post.”

“You’re gettin’ paid for all! An’ not for that smart mouth o’ yours!”

Torrington rolls his eyes with a fond expression before hoisting himself out of the seat and lifting a crate. As he does so, Blanky juts his chin toward Edward’s bag. Edward stands up immediately and slings the strap of the bag over his shoulder, ignoring how light it is and how long his tenure is meant to be. With any luck, the apparently cosmopolitan Harring might have at least one person capable of knitting a sweater or sewing up a pair of trousers.

He follows Blanky and Torrington off the dock and right into the heart of Harring, which is only slightly bigger than it seemed from the water. It is, by all appearances, a fishing village with stone houses on drunken tilts and salted air woven thick with woodsmoke. Men gut fish on planks set across sawhorses while they talk around their pipes. Cats saunter up and down the narrow, pocked mud roads, noses trying the air for an opportunity. Small fishing boats awaiting repair are mounted on stones on the roadside, chipped paint flecked with mud. There are also the staples of a town that Edward is relieved to see; he can’t mistake the faded sign of a tavern swaying and creaking on the wind, and even greater relief comes with the sight of a freshly-painted board beside a door, reading _Doctor_ in white lettering.

Blanky steers toward the tavern and Edward has half a mind to object. The letter from the Northern Lighthouse Board expressed the strictest terms of his arrival to Wardskerry, even though his stomach is settled from the trip but empty since breakfast in Kirkwall and his dry tongue wouldn’t protest a cup of tea. He only manages a stiff, “Captain,” before something catches his eye.

Underneath the tavern sign—an anchor supported in the palm of an outstretched hand—reads _T. Blanky – Proprietor_ on a small plaque. Appropriately, the captain turns to give Edward a questioning glance over his shoulder. “Aye?”

“Ah. Nothing.”

Blanky frowns and tilts his head toward the sign before realisation appears to dawn on him. He splits into a grin, pipe still fixed between his tobacco-stained teeth. “I suppose this’d look strange to you,” he says, amused. “Fact is, near everyone on this island does at least two jobs.”

“At least,” Torrington echoes in agreement as he steps over an enormous puddle.

“One of mine’s tavern keeper,” Blanky goes on. Then, he looks up at the tavern sign with a thoughtful expression. “Then ferry captain, weather permittin’. Ah, fisherman on occasion. Peat cutter, but near everyone does that. An’ I make deliveries, provided our usual gent don’t feel up to task, like today. Although I’d be happy with a pint, we’re goin’ ‘round to meet Tad.”

Blanky walks past the door and leads them around the edge of the building to a small fenced yard. There, idly chewing on a clump of damp brown hay is a small sand-coloured Shetland pony. His forelock hangs long over his eyes and his tail swishes left-right-left like an offbeat metronome. The only sign that the pony has noticed them is the slight raise of his head before he whickers and lowers to gather more hay.

“ _This_ fine specimen is the strongest pony in all these islands,” Blanky says proudly. He walks around to the back of the paddock to a wooden cart with a hitch. The cart is big enough for four people to sit comfortably with room enough for a few bags or boxes. Edward entertains the notion that this is the limit of luxury for the people of Ransey. Blanky sets the mailbag down on the boards of the cart before motioning for Edward and Torrington to do the same. As they do, he gathers up the necessary tack from the fence while the pony snorts.

As Edward finishes pushing his things onto the cart, he stares in wonder at the ritual of harnessing such a small creature. “Will he be strong enough to pull all this?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Blanky barks out a dry laugh. “ _Strong_ enough? This bastard?” He snorts, not a sound unlike his horse’s, and pats Tad on the nose. “You ever been around these things?”

“I’ve been raised around horses, yes.”

“No, no. _These_ fellas. Shetlands.”

Edward frowns while Blanky leads Tad over to the cart. Tad bobs his head sleepily, still chewing at a few stray bits of hay stuck on his lips. “Oh, no,” Edward admits, sheepish.

“Bit like an ant, y’see,” Blanky continues as he harnesses Tad. “Small as you please, but as my wife says, no one told them they’re no bigger than their cousins. Tad thinks he’s a bloody— Oh, wotsit, big French beasts?”

Edward raises his brows. “A Percheron?”

“Aye. Don’t tell him he’s nothin’ less. ‘Sides, he’s one of only two ponies on this whole rock. He knows he’s important and I don’t tell him nothin’ crosswise.”

Tad doesn’t give the impression of a self-important horse the way Edward’s accustomed to in some of the horses back home, but he supposes there’s something of a local quirk here. No one on Ransey thus far seems to be arrogant or vain.

Blanky finishes the harnessing work and hops up onto the raised seat at the head of the cart. Edward joins Torrington in the back as the stoker-turn-courier pulls a pinch of tobacco from a coat pocket and fills a pipe, a single matchstick held between his middle and ring fingers. It gives the strangest impression, as he has a boy’s face and stature, but dons the effect of an old fisherman at his leisure.

When he catches Edward’s stare, he smiles, a streak of coal at the corner of his mouth making it appear that he’s grinning wider than he is. He holds the pipe out with both brows raised in a clear offer.

“No, thank you,” Edward replies.

Torrington shrugs and clamps his teeth on the stem before striking the match off his sole.

Blanky clears his throat and snaps the reins over Tad who begins a slow, lumbering walk suiting his sleepy disposition. “Got a few stops to make before Wardskerry. People expecting their mail and such. It’ll be somethin’ of a grand tour, if ye’d like!”

Edward looks around at the dismal environs of Harring, and then out where the land slopes up into grey hills under grey clouds, dotted with grey specks of dirty sheep. With a long sigh, he adjusts his hat, then digs his hands into his coat pockets like he’s stuffed the last vestiges of warmth and dryness in them. “Alright,” he says.

The “grand tour” amounts to a cursory glance at one of Harring’s three named streets (Nelson, Trafalgar, and Waterloo, to be specific—the focus is on Waterloo) and Blanky alternating between singing loudly and informing Edward of croft owners (“That’d be a Mister Bridgens up in that little shack. He’s a kind soul _and_ Harring’s only librarian.”) and shapeless landmarks (“They call that Adam’s Boot, but I think it’s more like Adam’s Co— Oh! Afternoon, Mister Irving!”), and little else. They stop off at individual cottages and huts, dropping off dented parcels and creased letters before moving on to the next sign of civilization. Then, Edward is treated to a long stretch of road, empty fields, whipping winds, and little else.

Blanky hums to himself while Torrington uses the sole of his shoe to tap the ash out of his pipe. The cart sways every which way as Tad tugs it along, clearly in no hurry. When the cart dips down the slope of a hill, Edward peers around Blanky’s shoulder to see the road yawning on for a great distance, and no sign of a house or farm for miles.

“Ah. Is it very long to Wardskerry?” he asks.

“Mm, a ways yet,” Blanky confirms. He shakes the reins over Tad again. “You’re no _Esther,_ for certain.”

Tad snorts and drops a few horse apples to express his opinion.

“It’s somethin’ to get used to,” Torrington says, leaning back against the side of the cart. Smoke trails after his pipe like a small-scale boiler. “Everything takes an hour to get to, and two hours to get back _from._ Dunno why people wanted to live in Farfell in the first place.”

Blanky shrugs. “Fishing’s better, I suppose.”

Torrington scoffs and tucks his hands into the armpits of his coat. “That’d be the only reason,” he replies. Then, he gives Edward a crooked grin and says, “I reckon you didn’t put in for this place.”

“Sorry?”

“Ransey and the lot,” Torrington says, gesturing out at the endless grey emptiness around them. “You pick this yourself?”

Edward adjusts his weight on the bench before shaking his head. “I was assigned here through Trinity House. They, ah—” A bit self-consciously, he reaches up to the brim of his keeper’s hat, just under the Northern Lighthouse Board emblem. He’s been all too aware of the discrepancy of wearing the emblem since he left London. “It was something of an executive decision, I’m told.”

“Oh, that’s Ransey tradition, lad,” Blanky replies. “It may be one of the Shetlands, but the Crown’s not fit to think so. Fact’s as they are, hardly anyone on this rock is _Scottish,_ let alone, eh—”

“Shetlanders?” Edward tries.

“Thereabouts! You hear the mess comin’ out of Mister Torrington’s mouth?”

Torrington rolls his eyes.

“All Manc. Every word made of Manchester wrought iron! You came up here for what, Torrington?”

“My health.”

“His health, he says! Bird shit n’ oats will make you right as rain. We’ll be more popular than Bath before long.”

Torrington shakes his head and takes another draw from his pipe as he scrapes a crescent of dried mud from the tip of a shoe. “I was consumptive,” he says as an explanation, one that Edward assumes is aimed at him. His eyes flick up as if he expects Edward to scoot away from him but offers a small smile when he sees that he doesn’t move any more than he’s jostled by the cart. “Sea air and cool weather is supposed to do the job. Ransey was, er, advertised, more or less.”

Edward sees Blanky raise his right hand and point to the sky. “That’s another tradition,” he says. “Or two. Consumption and bad advertising.”

It may be a combination of exhaustion and hunger finally starting to gnaw through what remains of the nausea, but Edward’s head feels just as shaken as the cart and as foggy as the rolling landscape. He blinks wearily and rubs a hand over his jaw, along two-day stubble and sideburns. In an attempt to stay in conversation and make a good impression on one of the few deliverymen on the island, he says, “I’m afraid I was ordered here more than lured by advertisements, and I’m not consumptive.”

Blanky offers a sideways grin. “Well, lighthouse keepers are a well-respected bunch here, so we’ll allow it, even if you got your commission from London.” Another fresh flick of the reins. “An’ for now, I’m sure you’ve heard enough of us prattling. Rest up, Mister Little. We’ve still got some road ahead of us.”

Despite the incessant motion of the cart, Edward is far too happy to take the captain up on his offer.


End file.
